


A Dogmatic Pursuit

by johnlockian (weightlessbutyoumakemestrong)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Christmas, Dogs, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8949616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weightlessbutyoumakemestrong/pseuds/johnlockian
Summary: A case turns personal, forcing Sherlock to confront his feelings regarding John, dogs, Christmas, and himself. (Featuring Sherlock finding himself a new furry flatmate!)Light angst with a hopeful ending.





	

Three months after the public announcement of Mary and John’s divorce, the world’s only consulting detective finds himself a new flatmate. The acquisition is neither planned nor accidental.

By the time Lestrade had called him in for help finding a missing homicidal psychiatric patient, Sherlock had begun to put the pieces together. All the detective inspector had to do was mention said patient’s fixation on dogs, and Sherlock was on the trail. Literally.

“This mad tosser screamed something bloody awful about ‘Maxine’ missing the ‘puppy parade.’ What is a puppy parade, for Christ’s sake? Who’s Maxine? I mean, she murdered her parents in cold blood. What-” Lestrade’s sarcasm was bleeding through the phone at that point.

“I’ve got it, Griffin, do shut up.” 

He would never admit it, but Sherlock was secretly pleased his work would be taking him to the Tootsmas Pooch Parade. 

Christmases past had held a strange sort of melancholy. His first Christmas with John had only been slightly tinged with despair, hints of what was to come within the next two years. John and Mary’s first Christmas as husband and wife was Sherlock’s third without his best friend, his partner in crime, his… 

Never mind that.

Everyone knew what happened with Magnussen and Mary the year prior. Two weeks after Sherlock’s overdose, Rosamund Mary Watson was brought into the world. The holiday season would never be the same for anyone in Sherlock’s life.

By the time little Rosie was three months old, Sherlock had painstakingly eliminated the remaining individuals in Moriarty’s twisted web.

He also came to the unfortunate realization that he was still missing the crown jewel of the organization, the final problem: Jim’s successor. To make matters worse, his elder snob of a brother was considering taking a deal with the new Moriarty to protect Sherlock from his past mistakes. This led the unlikely trio of himself, John, and Mycroft to confront the new black widow and end the macabre game once and for all. They simply had to find Moriarty. Again.

Two months later, Mary Watson received a call out of the blue from a distressed Janine, needing “A few clever men to finish what other men started! What do you say, Sherlock? You, John, your brother? Just like old times! It’ll be fun. Bring Janine home for supper.” Watching John massaging his temple with Rosamund on his hip made Sherlock feel wistful. So, when Mary hugged her still-estranged husband’s best friend and gave him a kiss on the forehead, electric smile and dimples flaring, Sherlock knew he had to say-

“Yes. Anything for you, Mary. Anything.”

Despite the very obvious signs of a set-up, John took the Holmes’ boys to the (abandoned) aquarium where Janine said her ex-boyfriend would have his ass kicked. Sherlock found that statement to be true, regardless.

As usual, they walked right into a trap. Janine informed Sherlock he had two minutes to pick which person was to die or else they would all be drowned. Obviously, he chose himself.

Taking a minute to silently convey his plan to the other men, he decided to try a diversion tactic. At this point, if it failed… well, Sherlock didn’t have anything else to lose except time.

Sherlock admitted he loved his brother while staring at his own reflection in a glass separating the trio from the wall of water. He positioned the gun John had handed to him, braced himself for the impact, and pulled the trigger. 

All it took was a carefully timed blow to his lower side and a large dose of Ativan and Sherlock immediately dropped to the floor. According to Mycroft, John began his usual histrionics about hospitals and ‘not this again.’ That display of emotional upheaval was enough for Janine to release them, if only for John to ironically shoot her in her chest. Her final words implicated a certain “damsel willing to cause distress.”

When Sherlock woke up for the first time after shooting himself, it was to a chorus of crying. Relief. John. Mycroft? Actual cries. Rosamund. False happiness. False identity. False everything… Mary Watson. 

At this point, Sherlock catalogued individual reactions temporarily in his mind palace, noting that John kept glancing between the four people in the room. Guilt. Overwhelming guilt.

Obviously, the whole situation was a ruse designed by Mary to get rid of Sherlock and have full manipulative reign over Mycroft and John. Everyone in the hospital room knew it, but he couldn’t exactly tell John that because John’s wife is John’s business.

Boy, did John make it his business. 

As soon as Sherlock woke up from his third medically-induced coma, he looked at the clock and knew something was wrong. Six-month-old Rosie was wailing in the background. She only ever wailed when she was hungry, (not hungry, she was fed at precisely 1:30 p.m.,) when she was tired, (it’s 4:01 exactly, her nap is between 2 and 3 o’clock,) or-

“For the love of God, Mary. You know very well I only forgave you the first time because he fucking wanted me to! Don’t you get it? Sherlock NEVER forced me to choose. Never. Only you. God, I can’t even look at you. I’m so disgusted.”

“Likewise, John. How wonderful to split up when Rosamund is still so young, so impressionable! Have you not given a single thoug-“

“Don’t you dare bring my child into this. You’ll hear from my lawyer. Better yet, we’ll have Mycroft get Greg and the Yard into this. Be done with this charade once and for all, hmm? This marriage is nothing but shell casings and empty promises. I tried so hard to give Rosie the nuclear family unit I never had. You’re not a parent. You’re just playing house, and Rosamund deserves so much more.”

“Ha, spare me the martyrdom. The only thing worse than having me as a mother is putting her in Baker Street with Sherlock, and you know it. Figure it out, John. You might be clever enough for that.”

“I don’t- ah, look who’s here for you. You’ll be served in prison.”

Sherlock heard Donovan, Dimmock, and Lestrade murmuring to Mary about her rights, but the only thing registering in his mind was self-doubt. John had certainly trusted him with Rosie’s care when Mary had taken John for an anniversary getaway, and had previously been pleased when he saw Sherlock interact with his child. Granted, it had only been two days, but would Sherlock really be the worst thing to happen to Rosamund? 

Intent on analyzing his latest puzzle, Sherlock missed John entering his room, steadily rocking the pram back and forth with a sad smile creasing his eyebrows. Still so weary, still so beautiful. Sherlock immediately felt raw guilt rise like bile in his throat. 

As if he could read his former flatmate’s mind, the doctor decided to speak, a hint of emotional strain clouding his voice. 

“It’s not your fault, Sherlock. I’ve been miserable. I would come home from work to find my daughter unfed and unchanged. Rosamund spent most days without a simple touch from her mother, but I thought things would change as she got older. I was wrong. Mary was never going to be maternal. She was barely a wife. You spent so much time trying to protect me from her wrath by taking her on cases. I began to resent that, feeling overwhelmed, jealous, and alone… but I still refused to admit my marriage was a failure. Traditions can ruin people. I needed my daughter to have that perfect family life because I didn’t want to become my father. Even though the two of us were both living lies, I didn’t know how to change my own mind about what was best for Rosamund. Our weekend getaway was a last-ditch effort on my part to make things work. I didn’t want to go. To be honest, I really was more curious about how you would handle Rosamund if… if you were to raise her. I realize that was the wrong time to do it. I realize I need time to sort out my life without a psychotic wife controlling my every move. Without being a full-time employee and full-time dad. I need to figure out how you fit into my life. Stop looking at me like that, you know what I mean. I’m going to go stay with Harry. I needed to say goodbye.” 

Nothing Sherlock could say would change the outcome. John would still walk away.

“Please say something. You’re never this silent. I need to know it’s okay for me to leave you again, Sherlock. I need you to know this is temporary. Just tell me what you know I need to hear to leave. Deduce it, for crying out loud. Please.”

Sherlock exposed his teeth in a rueful grimace, practically snarling by then. 

“What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you I’m happy you’re leaving or that I’m hoping you’ll come back soon? You and I have shared hell and heaven, but we have never survived anything that didn’t tear us apart right after. You can decide what’s right for you and your daughter, John. Don’t contact me until you are sure you know what you want from me. Fuck, I know your train leaves London at 4:45, so leave before I start begging you to stay. Let me say goodbye to Rose before you go.”

Finally, after kissing Rosamund’s head, he murmured in her ear a small sentiment he had now uttered twice in one week. If the hushed “I love you” was also directed to John, no one had to know.  
Since that conversation in the hospital, Sherlock felt a desperate need to prove himself. He threw himself into physical therapy exercises and baby-proofed Baker Street out of guilt and anguish. Recovery, especially from his dangerous mindset that he would never be enough for John or for himself, was the toughest experience Sherlock had faced. Quitting smoking and surviving withdrawal was tough, but nothing like admitting to and fixing his self-loathing ways.  
He took time off from Scotland Yard investigations and helped his brother with domestic and foreign legwork, allowing Mycroft to care for him and love him instead of fighting him tooth and nail.

However, as Christmas began to approach, Sherlock began to feel a familiar itch crawl through his body. Mrs. Hudson would soothe his shaking transport with a cup of tea, whispering words of encouragement and kissing him on the forehead. Still, he needed a distraction. 

That’s how he found himself at Lestrade’s beck and call, with a Labrador mutt in costume pulling him down a dirt trail on Graveney and Meadow. Sherlock was waiting for the Tootsmas Pooch Parade to begin, scanning the crowd for one particularly homicidal female when he realized he rather liked the fascinating little creature currently trying to crawl into his Belstaff. 

(“Her name is Rose.” Oh, the irony. Lestrade unapologetically winced when handing the leash to Sherlock. “She is only six months old, came from the shelter near the NSY. Rose is not going to be collateral. Get her back to the Yard in one piece, or this time Donovan might actually kill you.”)

While fighting to keep the smile off his face, Sherlock picked up Rose and made a few deductions about the attendees. Failing to see the errant patient, he resigned himself to participating and made his way to registration. Unsurprisingly, most of the other contestants were extremely wealthy and snobby, having come to the parade to show off their prized pooches, freshly groomed at the Blackheath Dog Spa and wearing diamond-encrusted Versace collars. Sherlock scoffed and signed in at the posh registration booth, ready to begin walking the city blocks. 

That was the thing about crime- nobody was ever aware of their danger unless they lived their lives in constant fear. Humans were self-centered at best, and that ruined them for the spoils of humanity.

Tranquility can be snatched from one’s life in a single moment, a single event can flay one person open and expose them to anguish on a day they were simply supposed to walk in a fucking holiday parade with an animal wearing festive clothing. Sherlock knew that from experience. He was simply supposed to solve the Moriarty enigma with John, and the next moment found him tumbling over a rooftop to save his heart from eternal Hell. Scorned by a fictional suicide, scorched by the flames of a passionate love for the one man he would (not) die for, the one man he chose to live for. Alas, tranquility can be stolen in an instant, and even Londoners in puppy parades must face tragedy  
eventually.

However, Sherlock was hellbent on making sure they didn’t witness any today. 

“A warm welcome to those attending the 2015 Tootsmas Pooch Parade. Attention contestants: please gather at the starting gates. Our parade leaders will escort you all to the finishing gates where we will crown the Best Dressed Pooch and give out treats to our fabulously furry friends. Thank you one and all for coming.” 

The perky parade master waved and giggled, giving everyone time to make their way to the right gate and allowing Sherlock to search for his patient with no luck. 

Five minutes later, the parade began, and so did the hunt for Lillian Ebershoff. 

With handcuffs and a taser in one pocket and a rubbish bag in the other, Sherlock was ready to take on London’s most wanted individual and best dressed dogs. Rose gave a yelp as if to indicate affirmation, and Sherlock gazed at her fondly, giving her a pat on the head. 

“It’s time to walk, little one. Do fit in.”

Despite his words of canine coercion, Sherlock grew frustrated when he failed to spot Lillian in the crowd. Surely someone had to have seen a teenager in a hospital uniform, but everyone he asked was either too obliviously annoyed or hadn’t a clue of what he was talking about. By the time he reached the finishing gates, Sherlock still hadn’t located Lillian. 

There was one conclusion he could draw, which would only make sense if Sherlock was understanding her motive for murdering her parents. He dialed Lestrade’s number and waited as it rang.

“Sherlock! Have you found her yet?”

“Lestrade, tell me why she killed her parents.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ thank you very much. Lillian says she went temporarily insane when she saw her mum and dad beating the family dog on the night of the murders. Lillian felt so connected to her pets that her parents’ beating the dog felt like she was getting beaten too. She flew into a rage and clubbed her parents to death, then called 999 and confessed to her crimes. Lillian is still considered a threat to others, and I’m really worried about what will happen if you don’t find her soon.”

“Okay. Just find me the name of the animal hospital her dog was in. Maxine is obviously her dog, and is missing the parade because she’s in the animal hospital. That’s what Lillian was referring to- she wanted to break out and see Maxine on a day they were going to spend together.”  
Sherlock could hear Lestrade rustling his papers around, looking for the answer to Sherlock’s question. Finally, he heard shouts in the background. 

“Send out an APW on Lillian A. Ebershoff to the Elizabeth Street Veterinary Clinic in Belgravia, stat. Put the place on emergency lockdown, we’re sending Dimmock, Donovan, and Holmes over to apprehend our escapee.” Lestrade wearily hung up the phone, knowing Sherlock had heard every word. After hailing a cab and spending what felt like hours with Rose wagging her tail on his lap, Sherlock made his way inside the clinic on Elizabeth Street. Donovan and Dimmock were waiting in the main corridor, both staring wistfully at Lillian Ebershoff, whose arms were protectively wrapped around her beagle.

“I’m so sorry, Maxie, I’m so sorry. God, I saved you then and I can’t save you now. I love you Maxine, I love you so much and I am so sorry. I regret everything except saving your life. I’m sorry.” With that, the young woman stood and put her hands up in surrender, filling the room with loud sobs.

“I can’t do it Holmes. You have to be the one to do it. Please.” Donovan whispered, clearly distressed. 

Sherlock’s heart ached. Losing Redbeard was a trauma that made him numb, and he never wanted to harbor emotions again. Mycroft’s harsh words to him the night Redbeard passed away told him that love was just a ruse designed to sugarcoat obsessive possession. Sherlock’s first vow was to never love as recklessly as he loved Redbeard, and his last vow was to love secretly. He understood Lillian’s pain, he understood how people could become insane for the heartbeats they loved hearing. 

She killed her parents to save her Maxine. He killed Magnussen to save John. Lillian wasn’t a psychopath or a homicidal maniac… she was just a girl who loved too deeply for her own good. Instantaneously, Sherlock’s heart broke for her, and he decided he DID have to be the one to end this case the right way.

Sherlock slowly moved into Lillian’s personal space, but left enough room between them as to not corner the saddened teenager. He extended his hand and his heart, offering a plea disguised as a simple question:

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for the NSY. You can bring your hands down, Lillian. Would it be alright if I gave Maxine a belly rub?” Lillian nodded and moved a protective hand to her beloved dog’s underbelly before gesturing for Sherlock to do the same. He sat down on the linoleum floor and caressed Maxine, weighing his words before speaking. 

“I know without a doubt in my mind that what you did was a self-defense. I know you regret what you did, and I also know you probably would have suffered silently if your parents hadn’t moved their attention to Maxine. Your pup was trying to protect you, and you gave some of that back. I don’t fault you, Lillian. You’re only sixteen years old. I was thirty-five when I used self-defense for the first time.”

Lillian looked up, clearly astounded. (Afraid, anguished, and alone. So much like Sherlock that it hurt.)

“You and I, we were both desperate to save the only living creatures that loved us, each in their own way. I’m going to fight for you, and I’m going to make sure you live to see Maxine outside of a juvenile detention center again. You’re not going to spend the rest of life in prison for crimes your parents tried to commit against you. You’re going to tell the court all of this, and we are going to get you a plea deal.”

Maxine put her paw on Sherlock’s thigh. Lillian smiled. 

“You’re probably going to spend a long time in an inpatient rehab facility for your severe PTSD, anxiety, and depression. I’m sorry for your loss. Not of your parents, but of your innocence. You will continue to feel guilty and afraid, but you don’t have to feel alone. I’m not saying your parents deserved to die, it’s debatable at best. But you certainly didn’t deserve years upon years of abuse. I’m not going to let you have your dog to worry about too.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes? Where is Maxine going to go? I only ever tried-”

“Do be quiet, Lillian. She’s going to come home with me.” Sherlock heard Sally and the others laughing incredulously in the background, but he was so far gone with empathy for the broken girl in front of him that he snapped, turning to meet the rest of the Yard’s eyes.

“It’s about time I found a new flatmate, don’t you think?”

Lillian put her hand on Sherlock’s. “You would do that for me?”

“In a heartbeat. Maxine deserves to recover in a safe home, and judging by the fact that she is blind in one eye, dangerously underweight, slow to trust, and three years old, it will be a long time before she’s ready to be adopted out. I’ll take good care of her. When you’re done with your psychiatric or judicial sentence and reestablishing yourself, we’ll talk about your pet again.”

“I think I’d like that, Mr. Holmes.”

“You don’t have much of a choice, but I’m thrilled you’d agree with me if you did. I’ll keep in touch. For now, I’m going to put these handcuffs on you and walk you to your police escort’s car. You’re going to stop running away from and start embracing what you’ve done. You can’t change your mistakes, you can only learn from them and let people in. You’ll survive, Lillian. I’ll be right there with you.”

After being arrested for the killings of both of her parents, Lillian willingly volunteered every detail of what had happened the night they died. The sixteen-year-old had invited her girlfriend to sleep over at her house because Mr. and Mrs. Ebershoff were away on a business retreat. Lillian and her girlfriend were kissing (half-clothed) when the front door opened. Lillian’s parents had returned early and were aghast to find Lillian in such a compromising situation. They kicked out her girlfriend. As soon as the other girl drove away, the extremely homophobic Mr. and Mrs. Ebershoff began to beat their daughter. When Maxine bit both parents to keep Lillian safe, Mr. Ebershoff kicked the dog backwards and Mrs. Ebershoff grabbed a knife, slashing the poor creature’s side. Lillian, enraged, humiliated and afraid, grabbed the nearest heavy object and bludgeoned both of her parents. She immediately called 999 and slumped to the floor, where the A&E first responders found her unconscious right next to Maxine, hands stretched out as if to hold and protect her beagle.

Lestrade immediately launched an investigation into Lillian’s claims of abuse and found that both parents were controlling and severely violent. The poor girl was bound to snap eventually.  
Over the course of the next few days, Sherlock and Lestrade went to work on reducing her maximum sentence, while also advocating for her continuing her stay in a psychiatric facility. When brought to the Royal Court on December 23rd, a team of domestic violence survivors petitioned for Lillian’s health and wellbeing to the Court. They ultimately offered a rare deal: Lillian A. Ebershoff was to spend five to ten years in a maximum security psychiatric facility. Upon completing treatment, she would be moved to a moderate-security prison focused on the integration of abuse survivors back into society.

Sherlock was allowed to give Lillian a hug, promising to visit her often and take good care of the dog she was willing to die to protect. (If he cried, nobody had to know.)

On Christmas Eve, the Elizabeth Street Veterinary Clinic called Sherlock to let him know Maxine was ready to be brought to Baker Street. He and Mrs. Hudson had spent the whole morning shopping for dog food, toys, bedding, even the potty pads for when the dog had to use the bathroom. (“Come on, dear, you know you’ll regret it when you have to clean up her messes off the floor.”) Sherlock hadn’t felt this much joy since before his fall. And goddammit, it felt deserved. He picked up Maxine from the clinic and went home, knowing that whatever happened next, at least he had someone to share it with.

Dogs might not be able to speak, but they could listen. It seemed unfathomable, but no matter what happened with John, he still would have a companion that understood him. He would still have Lillian, who wrote Sherlock a letter weekly. He wrote back, of course. He always wrote back.  
Mrs. Hudson would still bring him his tea, Lestrade would still call him for help on his cases, and Mycroft would still come over to pester him about staying clean and play a game with him. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes still begged him to come home for an extended vacation. Molly would still invite him to her morgue, and even Donovan began taking him out for coffee. It wasn’t perfect, but he was alive and well for the first time since the fall. One doesn’t have to be completely happy to be grateful for their life. And maybe, just maybe, John would finally come home within the next year. 

Everything feels more whole when Maxine curls up beside him in his bed that night. Sherlock falls asleep on Christmas Eve with a smile on his face, knowing he will survive this next year with a new heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first short story I've ever finished writing. I used three things I love dearly to create this fic: Sherlock, dogs, and Christmas. Feedback is welcome, comments are appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed reading this.
> 
> Also, as you can tell, there are a few loose ends I could tie up... for Sherlock or John or Lillian. Maybe all three! Let me know if you'd like to see a sequel and what you'd like in it.


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